


mrok : darkness

by ira_fae



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Comatose Stiles Stilinski, Dead Aiden (Teen Wolf), Dead Allison Argent, Evil Gerard Argent, Gen, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Magical Sickness, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Nogitsune Trauma, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Supernatural Elements, Trauma, Warning: Gerard Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ira_fae/pseuds/ira_fae
Summary: “This is a rare form of edelweiss. Mrok edelweiss. It’s like wolfsbane, but it doesn’t affect werewolves. It affects other types of supernatural, ones you could still consider human, like Lydia,” Deaton says, turning the plant in his hands.“But,” Noshiko protests, “it shouldn’t affect Stiles. He’s completely human.”“It isn’t the same as when he was possessed, Alan. This is not a possession. It’s a sickness,” Ken says. Noshiko shakes her head and steps back from Stiles.“Well, how do we help him?” Deaton asks. Ken actually grimaces and looks to his wife who just shakes her head.“We can’t. He has to fight it off himself.”-orstiles gets infected with a sickness of the supernatural kind and has to work through trauma in his head to fight it off
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	mrok : darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CeruleanMusings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanMusings/gifts), [whenshewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/gifts).



> i have tried to tag for everything but if i missed something tell me so i can add it! i'm glad to finally be able to share this fic with you all. it's been coming for a while and i'm just glad stiles is working through some trauma

It feels like the entire town is crammed into Deaton’s tiny office. Scott also feels like he can’t breathe and a long-dormant part of his brain starts whispering about an asthma attack. He’s pushed himself as far into the corner as he can. He feels like he’s going to chew his bottom lip off for as long as he’s been biting it. He’s just worried. 

They were just standing in the kitchen. He and Stiles were making fun of his mom. It was just poking fun, really. Stiles and Mom had started faux arguing and Scott started in on the fun. Stiles was laughing one second and the next second he was on the floor convulsing. They were going to take him to the hospital but then black liquid started leaking from his mouth and nose. It was straight to Deaton. 

Calls were made, texts were sent. Everything was frantic and hectic for about forty-five minutes. But now, it’s relatively calm. If one were to ignore the fact that Stiles is unconscious on Deaton’s table, surrounded by his pack. 

Scott isn’t really sure how everyone managed to end up at Deaton’s. Mom had called the Sheriff. Scott had only called Derek and Kira. He requested that Kira bring Noshiko just in case this was a Nogitsune thing. But somehow his entire pack is now in Deaton’s. 

Kira, Lydia, Malia, and the Sheriff are in the front part of the building. Isaac and Chris are hovering outside the door of the exam room awkwardly. Derek stands in another corner of the room, looking like he feels similarly to Scott. And Deaton, Noshiko, Ken, and his Mom stand around the exam table talking about Stiles. 

Scott’s hands are  _ shaking. _ He’s absolutely freaking out. Stiles is the only human of his pack. Mom and the Sheriff help out if and when they can but they aren’t part of the pack. Chris doesn’t count because he’s a hunter and even though he returned with Isaac, Scott knows he’s not part of the pack. 

So, Stiles is the only fragile human. The only one who doesn’t have advanced healing, who doesn’t have super strength, who doesn’t- Scott feels like he’s going to vomit. 

  
  
  


He awakes with a gasp, his whole body jerking. He squeezes his eyes closed, the bright light of wherever he is too harsh. He flutters his eyes open and closed until they’ve adjusted. When he can finally see he sits up slowly. His heart sinks when he realizes where he is. 

“Ah, good, you’re awake, Stiles.”

Stiles turns to look at the source of the noise and flinches when his eyes land  _ on himself. _ Except, no… That’s not Stiles. That’s the nogitsune. Void Stiles, as Stiles had taken to calling him. How is he here? How is he-

“You’re supposed to be dead!” Stiles snaps. He scrambles back, further away from Void, away from the danger. 

“Oh, Stiles,” Void says, “I’ve always been here. The Nogitsune was just what opened the door for you. I’ve been inside you all along. I  _ am you. _ ” The words grate against Stiles' nerves. It’s as if Void looked into Stiles' deepest, darkest fears and is shoving them in his face.

Stiles shouts “Fuck you!” He finally manages to pull himself up to standing, though his legs shake a little. Void vanishes and reappears right in front of Stiles. 

“Dear friend,” there are deep-set bags under his eyes, “do you really think you can get rid of me that easily?” 

Stiles grimaces, stepping back. He looks around, finally taking in his surroundings. He’s in that white room again. Everything looks the same, the endless room, the buzzing lights, the faint energy of chaos. 

Everything, except… There’s no nemeton. Stiles turns, momentarily ignoring Void. Still no nemeton. He turns back. 

“Wh- Where am I?” Stiles asks, his panic rising. 

Void smirks at him and starts laughing. He reaches up and Stiles flinches at the movement. Still laughing, Void takes one finger and places it on Stiles' forehead. And with that, he vanishes. 

This time he doesn’t reappear and Stiles whips around, trying to find where he went. But it’s just him, alone, in this big, empty, white room. 

Stiles tries to think logically. He was in Scott’s kitchen. He distinctly remembers that. They were joking around with Melissa. She had threatened to kick Stiles out forever. That’s the last thing Stiles remembers. So, hopefully, that means Stiles is in the protection of people who care about him. Because, if he’s here, he’s not in his body. 

He did a lot of research after. After the ritual, after the Nogitsune, after Void Stiles. He realized that when he, Scott, and Allison did that ritual, they weren’t physically at any of those places. This room, this means he’s in a sort of mental, spiritual realm. 

Stiles sucks in a shaky breath, feeling almost like he’s gotten his bearings. 

But as soon as he feels even slightly secure the entire world around him shifts. He’s in the woods. He recognizes the preserve even in the dark. Stiles grabs at his stomach, trying not to vomit as a nauseous feeling overwhelms him. 

Suddenly, Scott is walking past him, panting and wheezing. 

_ “Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight?” _

Stiles gasps, jerking back as the words seem to sting him. 

Scott walks past him again, still panting and wheezing. 

_ “Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight?” _

Stiles racks his brain. Scott is walking past him for the third time. This should be obvious. Scott is calling himself an asthmatic. That means he isn’t a werewolf yet.

_ “Maybe the severe asthmatic should-” _

Scott freezes in place, like a paused movie, when it hits Stiles. Of course. This is the night they went looking for Laura Hale’s body. The night Scott was bitten by Peter. 

Scott turns, his eyes glowing yellow. He doesn’t move, just stands there, blinking, face blank. Stiles frowns, not understanding. He already saw this when they did the ritual. Stiles puts his hands over his eyes, scrubbing at them in frustration. When he blinks them open he’s back in the white room but this time Scott is there. He stands stock still, eyes glowing. 

Without any preamble, Scott is lunging forward and grabbing Stiles by the back of the neck. They go down to the ground and Stiles grunts, trying to push Scott off of him. But he realizes that it isn’t Scott anymore. It’s Peter. 

Peter flashes his teeth at Stiles and growls. The sound rumbles around the room. Peter is much stronger than Stiles and he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Stiles' side. Stiles screams in pain, thrashing in an effort to get away from Peter. 

Then Peter is gone and Stiles is groaning on the damp forest floor. He splays out a hand, feeling wet leaves underneath his touch. He pushes himself up, grunting with effort as he stands. His body carries him forward, toward what he hopes is outside of the woods. 

He breaks through the treeline and for the first time Stiles realizes that it’s raining. Stiles pants as he steps off of the grass and onto the road. 

But instead of his foot landing on the wet pavement, it lands on white linoleum. 

“Fucking stop!” Stiles shouts, feeling dizzy with each location change. He stumbles forward as pain shoots through his side. He grabs his shirt, pulling it up to find a bite mark on his side. 

“Oh, God,” Stiles groans. He takes another few stumbling steps forward, not looking where he’s going. Since his eyes are on his wound he crashes into something. Stiles falls to the floor, groaning. He forces himself up to a sitting position and realizes he’s staring back at himself. Thankfully this time it’s not Void, it seems to be a mirror. Or at least he thinks it is. Stiles takes a deep breath and pushes up to standing. He raises a hand up and watches his reflection do the same. He only relaxes when his fingers connect with the cool glass of the mirror. 

He takes a step back and breathes for a second.  _ Holy shit. _

Stiles turns slowly, eyes shifting from the first mirror to another beside it, and then another, and another. He’s only turned half a circle when he realizes he’s in a room full of mirrors. He turns his head, staring at his reflection from every angle. 

Something shifts over his shoulder and Stiles whips around, heartbeat rising. He finds only his reflection. 

Assured that he’s alone, Stiles finally thinks about tending to his wound. He pulls up his shirt to look at it again and practically jumps when he realizes that it’s started healing. He looks up to the mirror in front of him, shifting his body so that the bite is in a better view. He watches, stunned, as the wound completely closes up. 

Does this mean he’s a werewolf now? Stiles shakes his head, not believing it. 

Stiles lets the shirt drop back into place as his breathing starts to pick up. He recognizes that he’s going to have a panic attack if he doesn’t calm down. He tries to get control of his breathing but suddenly he has the oddest sensation in the tips of his fingers. He looks and is horrified to find claws growing out of his fingernails. His cheeks start to tingle the way his fingers had and he lifts one hand, feeling those horrible sideburns pushing out of his face. He jerks back, falling to the ground with the movement. He even feels his teeth shifting around in his mouth as fangs descend. None of the transformations hurt, it just feels so _ fucking _ weird. 

His body seems to settle, so Stiles finally looks up at his reflection. He has always wondered what he would look like as a werewolf, with the sideburns and no eyebrows. When his eyes connect with his reflection he shouts in surprise. 

Scott stares back at him in the mirror, looking terrified. Stiles shuffles closer to the mirror and Scott copies the action. Stiles lifts his hand again, shaking. He watches Scott mirror his movements exactly. With a jolt of horror Stiles realizes that it isn’t Scott mirroring him, his reflection is Scott. 

Stiles leans forward, trying to study his reflection, but he seems to fall into the mirror, landing on the wet leaves again. He curses softly, squeezing his eyes together, desperately trying to get control over  _ something _ . Stiles hears a soft groan and turns, looking for the source of the noise.

Scott lays on the forest floor as Stiles had just moments ago. He clutches his side but Stiles can see the blood oozing from the wound that he knows Scott has. 

“St-” Scott whimpers, “Stiles…” His voice is weak and it shatters Stiles' heart. Had Scott really called out for him? Had Scott really laid on the wet forest floor, bleeding and whimpering, calling out for his best friend? Stiles had gone home and gone to bed. He was laying on his soft mattress, punching his pillow into a comfortable shape while Scott was on the forest floor, calling out for him. Stiles has always regretted that night. He regrets it to this day. He shouldn’t have lied to his dad. If he had told the truth Scott probably would’ve been grounded but he wouldn’t have been bitten. 

“Oh, God,” Stiles whispers, staring at the shaking form of his best friend. The realization hits him like a slap to the face. 

Scott forces himself to stand, legs shaking as he starts to hobble forward. Stiles' body moves without his permission, following Scott. He watches with horror and guilt filling him as Scott has to stop to lean against a tree, panting and wincing.

Scott is mumbling softly. Stiles can’t understand him. He leans forward to try and understand but Scott is pushing off the tree and pressing forward. Stiles feels like he could vomit as he watches his best friend struggle to make his way out of the forest. Stiles shakes his head. He doesn’t actually know if this is what happened. 

_ But what if it did, _ a soft voice whispers. Stiles' breath stutters. What if Scott really had cried out for him? What if Scott had struggled to make his way out of the forest, bleeding from a wound inflicted by a crazed Alpha? What if all of this could’ve been avoided if Stiles had just-

“ _ Flashlights, _ ” Scott mutters and Stiles’ heart sinks even further. He left his  _ severely asthmatic  _ best friend alone, in the forest, at night, without a flashlight. How fucking shitty is that?

“Scott,” Stiles huffs, “Scott, wait-” 

Scott doesn’t seem to hear him, stopping to lean against another tree, gasping. One of his hands holds the wound on his side, the other clutches at his chest as he wheezes. Stiles squeezes his hands into fists, shaking. 

“Scott-” 

He doesn’t listen, just pushes away from the tree, and keeps going. Stiles watches, stricken, as Scott nears a hole. He tries to shout to get Scott’s attention, but Scott doesn’t hear him. Stiles’ chest squeezes as Scott steps into the hole. 

  
  
  


“This is a rare form of edelweiss. Mrok edelweiss. It’s like wolfsbane, but it doesn’t affect werewolves. It affects other types of supernatural, ones you could still consider human, like Lydia,” Deaton says, turning the plant in his hands. Scott nods. He can feel  _ something weird _ almost emanating from the plant even though it’s sealed inside a bag. 

“But,” Noshiko protests, “it shouldn’t affect Stiles. He’s completely human.” 

Deaton sighs as he nods his head, “It shouldn’t. But it is the same as when he was possessed by the Nogitsune. Stiles is more prone to the supernatural than most humans. He performed a ritual that left him vulnerable.” Scott shakes his head, feeling weak in the knees. This is the second time that the ritual has caused Stiles to be left defenseless.

“It isn’t the same as when he was possessed, Alan. This is not a possession. It’s a sickness,” Ken says. Noshiko shakes her head and steps back from Stiles. Deaton and Scott look up at Ken, confused. 

“Do you know what’s happening?” Scott asks, turning to look at Kira’s father. He clears his throat. 

“Ah, well… I’ve only ever heard stories but… If this truly is mrok edelweiss,” Ken sighs softly, “Mrok is a Polish word. It means gloom or darkness. Since Stiles opened that door in his mind... Since he left himself defenseless… Mrok edelweiss can cause sickness to spread through the mind, a kind that festers on the darkness in one’s self.” 

Scott scoffs, “So, this is like a nogitsune but in his mind?” 

Ken shuffles on his feet, looking uncomfortable, “I suppose.” 

“Well, how do we help him?” Deaton asks. Ken actually grimaces and looks to his wife who just shakes her head. 

“We can’t. He has to fight it off himself.” 

  
  


Stiles cries out, wanting to reach for Scott, desperately wanting to save him from crashing into the hole. As Scott falls the whole world seems to shift and Stiles is suddenly standing in Dr. Deaton’s exam room. 

Scott lays on the table before him, naked as the day he was born, the bite still bleeding. Stiles reaches out to touch Scott’s shoulder and flinches when he actually makes contact. He wants to cry. Nothing is certain right now so being able to lay his hand on Scott’s shoulder provides him the tiniest bit of stability. 

Movement by the door makes Stiles jump again and cold fear wraps around his throat as Void walks into the room, dressed up in a lab coat. He holds a clipboard and moves toward the exam table where Scott lays. He hums and the sound grates on Stiles’ nerves. It sounds nothing like him. If anything it sounds like Deaton. 

Void sets the clipboard down and rolls a cart toward the exam table. He starts by cleaning the bite on Scott’s side. 

"Well, Stiles,” Void says, and his voice is definitely Deaton’s, “if Scott hadn't been left in the woods by himself he wouldn't have been bitten by a feral werewolf. Now, I'm sure I don't have to lecture you about the proper care of your best friend, but you have to remember that it can be dangerous out there."

Stiles frowns, looking down at Scott. His eyes are closed and he’s probably unconscious. He looks so young like this. It’s not even that long ago that he looked like this and it shakes Stiles a little. He was so young, so innocent. He just wanted to start for lacrosse. He just wanted to be happy. Stiles blinks away tears as Void, with his stolen Deaton voice, starts talking again. 

“Now, your werewolf will heal up rather quickly,” his phrasing makes Stiles’ stomach turn.  _ His _ werewolf? “I have some pamphlets you can take to learn how to care for your werewolf. All the info you need. But I do have to warn you, Stiles… This is concerning to me,” he gestures to the wound he’s now placing a bandage over, “I would be very displeased if I saw Scott injured again. It’s important that you take care of him.” 

Scott stirs a little and Stiles looks down at him, his heart clenching. Scott’s eyes flutter open. He smiles weakly when he sees Stiles. 

“Stiles, you came to get me…” Scott’s voice is weak. His eyes droop closed after a few seconds and the smile relaxes into a neutral expression. Stiles puts his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob. He looks up at Void who has the most displeased look on his face. 

“He doesn’t know yet, Stiles. He trusts you so deeply. It would break his heart if he knew you left him out there. Left him to die. Left him to get eaten by the wolves."

Stiles squeezes his eyes closed. How could he have known? 

“I didn’t-” he huffs, looking at Void, “I didn’t know! I couldn’t have known!” How could Void throw this in his face? Of course, he feels fucking guilty about it. 

Void just clicks his tongue, a disapproving air rolling off of him. 

“No,” Stiles snaps, feeling anger at Void rising in him, “You don’t get to do this. I already feel shitty enough about it. I shouldn’t have left him out there! It was a mistake. I was a bad friend. I was just trying to keep him from getting into trouble. How could I have known-” Stiles stops for moment and huffs, “But the thing is that I couldn’t have known! It wasn’t my fault!”

Void just scoffs at him and crosses his arms, looking down at Scott’s now bandaged wound, and back up. 

“No, you won’t convince me otherwise. I did a shitty thing but everything else… Him being a werewolf. That’s not my fault.”

Stiles looks away from Void, not wanting to see his disapproving face anymore. He looks down at Scott, at his young, innocent face. Stiles puts his hand back on Scott’s bare shoulder. 

“It’s not,” he whispers, more to himself than Scott, “I’m sorry I left you out there. But I can’t be held responsible for Peter’s actions.” Stiles feels something touch his other hand and looks down to find Scott’s fingers wrapping around his own. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes closed, not wanting to cry. 

He feels the world shift around him but he keeps his eyes shut, not wanting to see it. He wants to be back in his body. He wants to rest. He wants a second to breathe. Stiles' whole body jerks as an electrical current pulses through him. 

His eyes fly open. His arms are stretched above his head, he’s chained up. He cries out when he realizes who stands in front of him. 

Gerard’s face is contorted into a smirk. He does something on the machine below him and Stiles jerks with another current. He hangs his head as the urge to cry overwhelms him. He can do nothing. 

“Glad to have you back in my basement,” Gerard croons. Stiles’ eyes widen. He desperately hopes that this isn’t real. He can’t be here. He can’t. He’s not in his body. Gerard isn’t here. The Argents don’t even live in this house anymore! 

At least Boyd and Erica aren’t here suffering with him. Stiles refuses to think about  _ why _ they’re not here. But at least they’re not suffering. 

The sound of footsteps makes Gerard turn. Stiles cringes when he sees Void coming down the stairs. He stops by Gerard and they whisper in hushed tones for a moment. Finally, the two of them turn to Stiles, both grinning in a sick way. 

“The first time you were here I only sent you away with a beating. But this time, you’re stronger,” Gerard is saying, “You’re a werewolf now. So, it’ll take more to hurt you.” 

“This is going to be fun, Gerard. We could do this forever.” Void says, crossing his arms and sneering at Stiles. Gerard chuckles, sitting down in front of the little machine. 

“True. It’s not like he has a pack.” 

Stiles’s breath falters and he tries to shake his head. Of course, he has a pack. Of course, he does. 

“Oh, Stiles. You really think Scott would want  _ you _ in his pack?” Void narrows his eyes and moves closer to Stiles, glaring up at him. Stiles’ heart constricts. He’s already in Scott’s pack. 

“I-” Stiles tries to speak but his throat is dry. 

“None of your little friends care, Stiles. None of them are looking for you. None of them would care if you died." 

Stiles shakes his head again, barely able to move, “My pa- pack-” Stiles groans, his throat raw. He swallows trying to get some moisture into his throat. 

“You don’t have a pack, boy,” Gerard calls, “You’re an omega!” Stiles starts to shake his head again but the electricity courses through him. He cries out, clenching his hands above his head. 

“You were useless as a human, Stiles,” Void says, disgust in his voice, “and now you’re just a shitty omega.” Stiles whimpers. No. That’s not true. He wasn’t useless. He opens his eyes and cries out when he sees Boyd and Erica behind Gerard. Their eyes glow white. 

“You were useless as a human, Stiles,” Void repeats. Erica and Boyd say it with him, their voices eerie and monotone. 

“Scott would never have you in his pack,” Gerard says. Stiles closes his eyes, clenching his fists, tensing his muscles. They’re lying. It can’t be true. Scott wouldn’t abandon him. 

“You’ll die down here Stiles,” Void’s voice surrounds Stiles and more electricity makes him cry out, “alone, without friends, without a pack.”

The sound of the electricity buzzing near Stiles’ ear makes him whimper but he keeps his eyes firmly closed, not wanting to see his tormenters anymore. 

Gerard is speaking now, his voice shaking with anger, “You’re an omega. Alone. Weak. Worthless.” Void cackles and the sound shakes Stiles to his core. It’s not a sound the nogitsune ever made. This is wholly from Stiles’ nightmares. 

“Stiles is part of your pack, right?” Lydia’s voice cuts through Stiles’ anguish. His eyes fly open. He’s still in the Argent’s basement but the edges of everything are blurring. 

Scott responds to her, far off, “What? What do you mean?” Stiles whimpers. He wouldn’t deny it. Would he?

“He’s human, but he’s still part of the pack, right?” Lydia’s voice is so clear, so sure. Gerard sends another shockwave through Stiles and he starts to shake. 

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Scott says. Stiles sags with relief. Scott does want him to be part of the pack. Despite everything, Scott wants him. 

Lydia’s response is full of her usual sass, “So, how do wolves signal their location to the rest of the pack?”

“They howl,” Scott says back. Over the sound of the electricity buzzing, over Gerard’s taunts, over Void’s laughter, Stiles hears it. Scott’s howl is clear and powerful. He sags even further, the restraints and basement completely vanishing. 

“You’re an omega,” Gerard and Void say together. Stiles shakes his head. 

“-he’s still part of the pack, right?” Lydia asks again. 

Scott scoffs at her, “Yeah, yeah of course.” He’s so sure.

“I have a pack,” Stiles spits at Gerard and Void. The two of them vanish. 

“-he’s still part of the pack, right?” Lydia appears before him, smiling. 

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Scott responds, standing next to Lydia. He grins that big goofy, smile of his, and offers his hand to Stiles.

Stiles grabs Scott’s hand and pulls himself up to standing. As soon as he’s on both feet he’s back in front of those mirrors. His reflection is still a wolfed out Scott. But the fangs retract into his mouth, the claws seem to vanish, and the sideburns sink back into his face. 

Suddenly, his reflection is himself again. Stiles sighs and leans his forehead against the mirror, finally able to take a second to breathe. 

  
  
  


The clinic is quiet. It’s unsettling, John decides, being anywhere near Stiles or the pack and it being quiet. He’s alone with Stiles in the room they’ve set up for him. It never ceases to amaze John how quickly the pack will pull together to help one of their own. Even Melissa stepped in, bringing things from the hospital so Stiles could stay healthy during his coma. 

John doesn’t really understand everything that’s happened. They’ve explained it to him, Deaton, Noshiko, and Melissa, but it’s all a combination of medical and supernatural mumbo-jumbo that he just can’t wrap his head around. He gets the basics. Stiles got into this flower and it’s made him sick so now he’s in a coma. The thing that concerns John the most is the comparison to the Nogitsune. 

“It’s not a possession,” Noshiko had assured him, “it’s a sickness. Stiles has to be strong enough to fight it off.” Now, there’s something John isn’t worried about. Stiles is one of the strongest people he knows. 

But, sitting alone, with those machines beeping at him, staring at his son’s unconscious face, John is starting to get a little worried. It’s been three days. Three days since Melissa called him. Three days of unknowns and what-ifs and maybes. 

It takes John back to when Stiles really was possessed. The near-constant sick feeling he’d had in his stomach as he watched his son fall apart. The anxiety of not being able to do anything. 

“Stiles,” John says softly. They always talk to people in comas in the movies, “I… I know you’re strong enough. I know you’re capable. You always pull through. The supernatural world throws everything it has at you but you get up. You get up and you-” John’s voice catches in his throat. He blinks away tears. He won’t cry. 

Stiles  _ will _ get through this. Just like he’s gotten through everything. Without John’s help. Somehow his son has grown up and turned into a man. A warrior almost. Someone who fights for good. Someone who would sacrifice himself to save others. To save his own father. 

And that’s what kills John the most. Stiles is in this position because he sacrificed his own life to save his father. What has John done to deserve that? 

John knows Stiles loves him more than he would ever say. And he knows he doesn’t deserve it. That unconditional love that only one other person has given him. Thinking of Claudia makes John’s chest constrict and he squeezes his eyes closed. 

“Mieczyslaw,” the name just slips out. John opens his eyes and looks up at his son. He stands, moving closer to him, to grab his hand. “I can’t lose you too. Please,” John’s voice breaks and the first few tears spill over, “please.” 

Scott is drifting off when he hears the Sheriff start talking. It only takes him a second to realize that the Sheriff isn’t speaking to him and Scott tries to block it out. Enhanced hearing isn’t always beneficial. 

He glances at the clock. It’s half-past six. Someone should be back with dinner for Scott and the Sheriff soon. Scott knows that if he doesn’t force Sheriff Stilinski to eat, he probably wouldn’t. He’s already given up on the fight of trying to make him go home. 

Though he’s really trying not to listen, pieces of what Sheriff Stilinski is saying float out of the room and to Scott’s ears. Every word is another dagger to Scott’s heart. 

The Sheriff sounds so scared. Scott can’t help but be empathetic. He’s terrified of losing Stiles. It would be his fault. He’s the Alpha. He’s supposed to protect his pack. He’s supposed to protect his best friend. 

“ _ I can’t lose you too. _ ” 

Scott stands, wanting to do something. Sheriff Stilinski is clearly hurting. He should go in and comfort him. He should. It’s his duty to care for his pack. The Sheriff may not be part of the pack, but Stiles is. And since he can’t comfort his Dad, Scott will do it. 

His determination is swiftly broken when he steps into the doorway. The Sheriff is kneeled beside Stiles’ bed, holding his hand, weeping softly. 

Scott’s heart breaks. He moves to the Sheriff’s side and kneels beside him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking. Sheriff Stilinski turns to him, his face wet with tears. 

“What on earth are you sorry for?” 

Scott sniffles, “I didn’t protect him. He- It’s my duty-” Scott is abruptly stopped by arms wrapping around him. They both kneel there for a moment, in silence. 

“Let’s sit,” Sheriff Stlinski says softly as he pulls back. They both stand and move to the chairs that have been pulled into the room.

“It’s  _ my job _ to protect him,” the Sheriff says softly. Scott turns to look at him and finds a weary-looking man. He shakes his head. 

“It’s both of us,” Scott says, turning to look at Stiles, “but somehow, it’s always Stiles protecting us.”

  
  
  


Stiles pulls back from the mirror, hoping that his luck continues and that nothing has changed. But, since the universe seems insistent on fucking with him, he doesn’t stare back at his own reflection. Instead, he finds Lydia in the mirror. He thinks that maybe it really is Lydia, but he raises a hand to test it and sighs heavily. It’s not Lydia. He’s Lydia. Or at least his reflection is. Just like it had been with Scott. 

Stiles wishes he knew what was going on. He wishes he could see the big picture. He keeps getting small pieces. Small, vague pieces. Stiles sort of feels like he’s putting together a puzzle that’s all one color. All the pieces are this one shade of grey. So, the big picture is just a blob and all the fragments are meaningless. 

A whisper makes Stiles turn. But he’s still in the mirror room, by himself. Well, him and his Lydia reflection. More indistinguishable whispers start to float to Stiles’ ears. He draws his brows together, not understanding where they’re coming from. He raises his hand, his larger fingers connect with Lydia’s slender, feminine ones against the mirror. It’s an incredibly strange sight to see his own fingers, but have his reflection be Lydia. 

It hadn’t been that way with Scott. He  _ was _ Scott. Maybe it’s different because it’s Lydia. Or maybe it’s because Lydia is a Banshee so this time it’s different. Stiles furrows his brows, trying to understand. Why had he turned into Scott? Why had his realization that it wasn’t his fault turned him back into Stiles? 

More voices pull Stiles from his thoughts and he returns to his task. He presses his fingers against every mirror to see if there’s any give. He’s turned in a full circle and nothing. 

The sound of the voices is slowly rising in volume. Stiles huffs out a frustrated breath. The noise grows even louder. Stiles turns again and stops in his tracks. 

Lydia’s eyes sparkle in the mirrors and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat. 

Is this what Lydia hears?

Some of the voices are shouting now. It gets louder and louder. Stiles slams his hands over his ears to try and block it out. It doesn’t help. He squeezes his eyes closed, wincing as his head begins to ache. 

The voices are so loud they’re deafening. Stiles drops to his knees, groaning, squeezing his hands tighter against his head.

He can hear a scream. Someone is screaming. Loud, prolonged. The rest of the voices are talking, shouting. But there’s a scream. 

It takes Stiles a moment to realize  _ he’s  _ the one screaming. 

He feels the world shift again and he opens his eyes. The voices go silent as Stiles’ eyes connect with the top half of Laura Hale’s body.

Her head slowly turns. Her cold, dead eyes flash. 

“It’s your fault I’m dead, Stiles.” Her voice is a cold hiss that makes Stiles shiver. He steps back from her, eyes going wide. He shakes his head, not believing his eyes. He keeps moving backward, away from Laura Hale. He doesn’t look where he’s going and slams directly into something. Stiles whips around, heart hammering in his chest. 

Erica and Boyd stand shoulder to shoulder. There are tears running down Erica’s face. 

Erica whispers, “If you had researched harder… you could’ve found us in the bank. I might be alive. It’s your fault I died.” 

“If you had gotten there faster,” Boyd says, “I might be alive. It’s  _ your _ fault I died.” Stiles shakes his head. He got to Derek’s loft as fast as he could. Maybe… Maybe Boyd and Derek could’ve fought off the twins and Kali if they’d gotten the electricity up and running faster but…

“It’s your fault I’m dead,” Erica and Boyd say together. 

“It’s your fault,” this time Laura joins in. Stiles shakes his head, feeling nauseous. This… this isn’t true. This isn’t even real. This is… Stiles isn’t sure what this is. He turns, not able to look at Erica and Boyd any longer.

He swings to the right, back toward Laura, but is stopped by the sight of Heather. She’s wearing that strapless shirt she was wearing when she went missing. Her blonde hair is in disarray. Stiles can’t miss the gaping wound on her neck. Stiles also sees that she’s barefoot and blood is seeping from under her feet, staining the perfectly white floor.

Heather says, “Stiles… you left me. And I died. It’s your fault, Stiles.” These words hit Stiles like a knife to the heart. Tears fill his eyes and he clutches at his chest. She’s right. That’s what hurts the most. Stiles left her all alone. He can still see her dead body laying on that table. That image haunts him to this day. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly. 

Tears start sliding down Heather’s cheeks, "You're sorry and I’m still dead." She shakes her head and as she does the other two virgin sacrifices appear behind her. 

All three of them speak at the same time, “It’s your fault, Stiles.” 

With another stab to Stiles’ heart, Deputy Tara shows up, “If you could’ve figured it out faster…. I thought you were smarter than that, Stiles. It’s your fault I’m dead.” She shakes her head, sighing sadly. Stiles feels as if he’s choking, looking at her and Heather. He let both of them down. Mr. Westover and the other philosopher sacrifice appear behind Tara. Shame fills Stiles’ belly when he realizes he can’t remember the name of the third philosopher sacrifice. 

“It’s your fault, Stiles.” There are so many voices saying it now. 

It keeps going, just like that. The Darach’s sacrifices. The warriors come next, all giving Stiles disappointed looks.

“It’s your fault, Stiles,” they tell him. 

The healers appear next and suddenly all of the Darach sacrifices stand before him, all bloody and staring at him, “It’s your fault, Stiles.” His chest aches. They’re right. They’re all dead and he should’ve worked harder. For God’s sake, the Darach was right underneath them the whole time. All of the people whisper that it’s his fault. They just repeat those words over and over

Stiles can’t breathe. He turns, past the Darach sacrifices, past Heather, past Tara, past Erica and Boyd. He just wants a way out of this, a way to get away from them. From what they’re saying. 

Stiles is surprised by who stops him this time. With a gun pointed at Stiles, Matt is shaking. Matt takes a half step closer and Stiles has to remind himself that this isn’t real. This isn’t a real gun, this isn’t really Matt. 

"You could've helped me. I could've gotten better. But I died and it's your fault,” Matt is still shaking. Stiles can’t linger on Matt for very long. A man appears by Stiles. Nothing about him looks familiar to Stiles. 

“I- I didn’t even do anything. I was just a bus driver,” it takes him saying that for Stiles to recognize him. It’s Garrison Meyers, the bus driver Peter killed. He hates himself for not remembering, “It’s your fault I died, Stiles. Your fault.” Stiles thinks he might actually throw up. They’re all so loud. It’s just those two words on repeat, ‘your fault,’ over and over. 

Stiles keeps turning, not wanting to look at any of them. But it’s a mistake. 

Victoria Argent stands next, her hands holding her stomach, blood seeping over them. She glares at Stiles. 

“You’re the reason Allison doesn’t have a mother. It’s your fault I had to kill myself. It’s your fault I died.” Stiles whimpers, squeezing his eyes closed, scrubbing at them. Maybe they’ll go away. Hopefully, they’ll go away. But when he opens his eyes, even more people are in front of him. The Wendigo, Sean Walcott, and his family. Demarco Montana. All of the members of Satomi’s pack. Every person that was killed by an assassin.

“If you had figured it out faster,” one of them says. 

“If you were smarter.”

“If you had worked harder,” another says. 

“If you were better.”

“It’s your fault I died,” the entire group says. 

Stiles yanks at his hair, feeling as if he’s drowning in his agony. All of these people have died. He didn’t work fast enough, he didn’t try hard enough, he didn’t do enough. They’re all dead. Stiles is feeling dizzy with all of it. He darts his eyes over to where he expects the next person to be, but nothing… Hopefully, it’s done. 

There’s a gentle tap on his shoulder. Stiles spins around to find out who got close enough to touch him, but to his dismay, it’s another new person. 

Meredith Walker stands there, looking down at the ground, her hands wrapped in the bottom of her sleeves. Stiles can just barely see that she’s moving her mouth to speak, can just barely hear that there are words coming out of her mouth – but he can’t tell what she’s saying. 

“Meredith?” Stiles asks softly. 

She looks up, tears shining in her eyes, “You made me kill myself. It’s your fault.” Stiles can’t breathe. He tries to shake his head but he can’t. He forces his legs to move, backing away from Meredith. He’s too freaked out to look where he’s going so he backs right into more people practically chanting that it’s his fault. 

Stiles turns again, his movements jerky, trying to find a way out. He trips over himself and lands on the cold, white ground. He curls in on himself as their words get louder. 

“It’s your fault.”

“You did this.”

“You killed me.”

“It’s your fault.”

“It’s  _ your fault, Stiles.” _

Stiles feels something shift. He suddenly realizes that his hands feel… wet. He looks, bringing them closer to his face and realizes they’re covered in blood. Completely covered. In fact, he seems to be laying in a pool of blood. Stiles jerks up, but when he does he realizes the people around him are all bleeding. This is their blood. 

_ He has their blood on his hands. _

“I tried,” Stiles says, tears finally spilling over, “I- I did. I tried. I’m sorry!” They don’t care what he says. They’re chanting now. All of them in perfect unison. 

“Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.” 

Stiles is shaking, panting. Without thinking he brings his hands to his head. He groans when he realizes that he’s covered himself in blood but he can’t move. 

They’re louder now. The chanting is louder and the circle around him gets smaller as they move closer. 

"I didn't- I couldn't- I tried- I tried- I couldn't do it- it's-" Stiles’ heart practically stops when it hits him. But he did work hard. He ran himself ragged. He had so many sleepless nights. So many hours of research. He may not have saved everyone but he worked so damn hard. Things are just out of his control sometimes. 

“It’s not my fault,” he whispers.

They’re somehow growing louder, “It’s your fault.”

“It’s not,” Stiles says.

They’re screaming at him now, it almost sounds like thunder. Like a thousand voices booming around him. 

“It’s not my fault,” he says again. But they’re not listening. 

Stiles squeezes his eyes closed and does what he’s felt like doing this entire time.

He screams. 

He screams, “It’s not my fault!” 

Silence comes immediately. Stiles gasps, flinging his eyes open.

He’s staring at Lydia again. Stiles unfolds himself, standing as he moves closer to the mirror, pressing his hands against the cold glass. He pulls back, trying to breathe.

But still, he has this feeling. This need. Stiles knows what he has to do. He drops open his mouth and he screams a soul-shattering, window-breaking, earthmoving scream. Cracks begin to form in the mirrors. Whisper thin lines shooting across his reflection, cracking sounds all around him. Where Lydia stands in front of Stiles splinters into pieces. All of the mirrors shatter, glass showers down around Stiles but none of it seems to stick. In fact, the shards seem to just disappear. 

Stiles, for a split second, thinks that maybe this is finally over. 

But where his reflection of Lydia stood now stands Void. 

There’s still something just slightly off about Void. Stiles can’t place it. It’s felt like that every time Stiles has seen him though. It’s almost like when you run something through a copier, but not the crisp original. It’s like a copy of a copy. Stiles just can’t figure out why.

Void steps forward and grabs Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Oh, Stiles. Maybe  _ those _ people weren't your fault, but you know what is your fault?" Void smirks and spins Stiles around. In front of Stiles kneels Allison. She grunts, hands holding on to the sword that’s through her stomach. 

Seeing her. Seeing Allison, the way she died… Stiles claps his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his sob.  _ He  _ did that. He doesn’t need Allison to say anything.

“Oh,” Void says, grabbing Stiles by the chin to turn his attention a little to the right, “him too!” Ethan kneels on the ground, holding Aiden against him. Black blood trickles out of Aiden’s mouth and out of the wound on Aiden’s stomach. Stiles barely has time to even think about the twins. Barely has time to think about how his actions led to Aiden’s death, how he’s responsible for Ethan losing his other half. Barely has time for any of that before Scott is suddenly standing in front of him, forehead creased, grunting in pain. He, like Allison and Aiden, has a sword in his stomach. 

Stiles distinctly remembers how the handle of that sword felt, he remembers the feeling of twisting the sword, pushing it into Scott. Void appears behind Scott, setting his hand on Scott’s shoulder as he had Stiles’. Void pushes Scott down. He falls to his knees with a pained grunt. 

“You were even going to kill your  _ best friend,  _ Stiles.” Void clicks his tongue, shaking his head with a disapproving air, “There’s no way around this. These were all  _ your _ fault.”

Stiles shakes his head, more tears running down his cheeks. He just has to figure out a way out of this. Even though Void’s every word slices a new wound into Stiles’ emotions, even though seeing Allison the way she was when she died rips a hole in his chest, even though seeing Ethan sob over his dying twin brother makes Stiles want to curl up into a little ball and cry until he can’t breathe, even though remembering twisting that sword into his best friend makes Stiles feel like the most vicious monster on planet earth he can figure out a way out of this. He can figure out how to get away from this pain. 

This is just the next thing he has to deal with. Clearly, this entire thing is some supernatural coping mechanism. 

This one hurts the most. But he can do it. 

So, he’s facing himself. He’s facing Void Stiles, the Nogitsune. But what’s the big picture? Stiles is looking at his gray, smudgy puzzle pieces. It’s time to put it together. 

He looks at Allison. Her kind face contorted into a grimace of pain. He looks at Ethan and Aiden, both crying. He looks at Scott, his eyes riddled with betrayal and hurt. 

“But, that wasn’t me, Void, that was you,” Stiles says. Void’s face contorts. He practically snarls. 

“Oh, no. You don’t have a divine move here. You’re all alone.” As soon as Void is done speaking the space around them shifts. Stiles shivers in the new cold. He looks around, eyes going wide as he realizes where he is. 

He’s right back in that snowy area where they faced off with the Nogitsune. But this time, Stiles worries, it might be more real. Stiles focuses back on Void, now he’s not alone. 

Though this time, it’s not the Oni surrounding him. 

Standing guard around Void, all looking slightly off, are many, many deputies. Stiles gasps when he realizes what’s going on. Every single one of these deputies died at the hand of something supernatural. Stiles doesn’t even want to know how many of them were killed by the bomb in the Sheriff’s office. 

“Stiles, you do know why the Nogitsune chose you right,” Void asks, “Because remember… Allison  _ and _ Scott both opened the same door that you did. You must have wondered why? Why me? Why Stiles? The Nogitsune found a home with you because the darkness was already present in you. There was so much of it. Opening that door? It didn’t create the darkness. It was already there. Everything the Nogitsune did… he did because you gave him the idea! The fake-out present bomb on the bus? That was  _ your _ idea! All of those people in the hospital that were killed?  _ You _ did that, Stiles. Allison? Aiden?” Void gestures to the two of them, “They’re dead, not because you were possessed by a Nogitsune, but because the Nogitsune feasted on the darkness, the evil already inside of you! You did this, Stiles, this is your fault.” 

Stiles’ breath catches as he hears those last two words. His fault? 

When he turned into a Werewolf he had to accept that he wasn’t responsible for Scott getting turned, even though he felt guilty. He had to let go of that guilt and own up to what he was actually responsible for in that situation. 

When he turned into a Banshee he had to accept that he can’t be held responsible for every supernatural death in Beacon Hills. He’s only human after all. He works as hard as he can to solve every mystery. He can’t control that sometimes he doesn’t figure it out. The entire pack works as hard as they can. Sometimes bad things happen. He can’t hold on to the guilt he felt forever. He can’t hold on to the idea that he can save every single person who ever crosses paths with a supernatural. He just isn’t physically capable. He works as hard as he can and that’s as much as he can do. 

Stiles takes a step forward, shaking his head, "It's not my fault. You did this. The nogitsune. Not me. I wouldn't kill innocent people. I wouldn’t hurt Scott. I wouldn't kill Allison. I wouldn't kill Aiden. I’m not you. I am not the nogitsune. I am Mieczysław Stilinski.  _ Not _ a killer."

"You're not a killer?” Void scoffs, “Oh, but Stiles, to get rid of me… You'll have to kill me." He smirks, narrowing his eyes. 

“But,” Stiles counters, “you’re not real. You’re not. You’re not even the Nogitsune, are you? You’re not Void. You and everything that's happened- it's all been... some spiritual manifestation of my trauma. So if killing you is how I have to deal with this pain. Then that's how I deal with it." Stiles takes another step forward so he’s only inches from Scott, “You wanted me to fall on my own sword to restore my honor. But I didn't do it. And I still won't fall for this. The only person falling on a sword is you." 

Stiles reaches down and wraps his hand around the hilt of the sword that’s inside of Scott. For a brief second, he’s taken back to Deaton’s, to pushing the sword further into Scott. Stiles shoves that aside and pulls the sword out. That  _ isn’t _ Scott. 

Scott vanishes in a puff of smoke and Stiles surges forward, still stepping toward Void. The sword sinks into Void’s chest and Stiles keeps going, driving it in to the hilt. He’s barely more than an inch from Void, from his own face. He stares into cold, dead eyes that just vaguely resemble his own as everything fades away. 

  
  
  


Scott isn’t really sure how everyone managed to end up at Deaton’s. They’ve been doing shifts. This is Scott’s shift. His mom is the only one currently in the room with Stiles, but this is still Scott’s shift. The point is that Scott isn’t really sure  _ why _ everyone is here. But the Sheriff declared he didn’t want to eat dinner alone again and bought pizza for everyone. Deaton hadn’t left when the Sheriff arrived with the pizza and they got to talking. Derek and Isaac brought drinks. Kira showed up with chips. Lydia and Malia brought cupcakes –that  _ they baked,  _ thank you very little, Scott– and so the whole pack is in Deaton’s waiting area, eating pizza and feeling more cheerful than they have this entire week. 

Of course, there’s still an uncertain air and occasionally Scott will catch someone with their eyes glued to the doorway that leads to where Stiles is. 

But Scott is just glad that they can take a moment to breathe and be together. 

The happy atmosphere is shattered by his mom screaming, “Scott! Deaton! Help!” Scott and Deaton are the first to rush to the back, but everyone quickly follows. Scott enters the room first, eyes going wide at the sight in front of him. 

Black blood is spilling out of Stiles’ mouth rapidly and he’s shaking. His movements become more erratic and Scott realizes Stiles is having a seizure. 

“Scott, come here, help me,” Melissa snaps. Scott moves to her side immediately and the two of them pull Stiles onto his side. 

“What’s happening?” Lydia asks, voice frantic. There are murmurs throughout the pack. Scott looks to Deaton. Fear shoots up his spine when he sees the expression on Deaton’s face. He looks just as scared as everyone else. 

“We have to do something,” Kira says. 

Scott turns to his mom, “What do we do?” 

She looks up at Scott, “He’s seizing… I- We’ve done what we can.” 

“There has to be more!” Scott huffs, he turns to Deaton again, looks to Derek, “Guys!” 

Derek starts talking but it’s only half sentences. Deaton just shakes his head. Lydia starts crying. Scott feels his anxiety levels rising. 

Then it just stops. Stiles stills. The stream of black coming from his mouth stops. Everyone goes silent. Melissa gently rolls Stiles back onto his back. 

They all watch, eyes wide, waiting for something to happen. 

Stiles’ lips part ever so slightly and a soft sigh escapes his mouth. 

  
  
  


Scott’s shirt and pants are both covered in splotches of black. Stiles’ clothes have been changed and his top sheet was removed. Melissa also cleaned Stiles up. Scott worked on the floor, even going as far as getting the mop out. Now, he’s sitting by Stiles’ side, with a few tools, working on getting all of the black gunk off of Stiles’ nails. His mom did a fine job cleaning Stiles up, but this black stuff has a particular affinity for the human nail. Scott knows how much it bothers  _ him _ to be covered in the stuff, to have it under his nails forever, so he doesn’t want Stiles to have to deal with that. 

Deaton, the Sheriff, and his mother are all standing out in the hall having what sounds like a very serious conversation about Stiles’ condition. Scott refuses to participate. His mother has thrown around words like ‘comatose’ and ‘permanent condition.’ Even the Sheriff seems to have given up hope. 

Scott won’t do that. He refuses to give up on Stiles. It’s only been a week! Stiles deserves more credit than that. He’ll work through whatever is going on. Scott  _ knows _ he can do it. He has to. 

He has to. 

Scott realizes he’s stopped working on Stiles’ nails and is blinking away tears when he hears it. 

“S… Scott…” 

Scott looks up and gasps. Stiles’ eyes are open and he’s staring at Scott. He swallows and takes in a rattling breath. 

“Stiles!” Scott shouts. 

The adults go quiet in the hallway.

“Scott, I- I’m sorry." And with that Stiles’ eye slide shut and his head lolls to the side. Scott panics for a second but he can breathe again when he sees Stiles’ chest moving up and down. 

  
  
  


Stiles is exhausted down to his bones. His head is  _ pounding. _ His mouth is dry as the Sahara fucking desert and, honestly, tastes like death. He tries to open his eyes, the action taking so much effort. He can hear… He can hear his dad talking. He’s talking to- to Scott! Stiles forces his eyes open. 

“Dad-” he starts but he has to stop, groaning in pain. His throat is raw as hell. “Wa- ater,” Stiles groans. Watching his dad and Scott both scramble to comply with his request would normally be funny, but right now Stiles just needs a drink. 

Scott is the one who comes back with a cup. His dad helps him sit up, though. Stiles groans as he does so, his body protesting with every adjustment. But, finally, he’s in a comfortable sitting position and Scott brings the cup to his lips, helping him tilt it back. Stiles gulps. He gulps and gulps like a dying man. When Scott pulls away Stiles finally realizes how concerned he and his dad look. Their brows seem to be permanently furrowed. His father looks like he’s aged another five years. 

Stiles takes a moment to assess his surroundings. He is  _ not _ in the McCall’s kitchen, that’s for damn sure. He’s… Oh, my God. Is this Deaton’s Clinic? Is he… wearing a hospital gown? 

Both Scott  _ and _ his dad are wearing different clothes than they were wearing the last time Stiles saw them so he must’ve been out through the night. Scott also looks like he’s about to explode. 

“Go ahead,” Stiles says, voice still rough. 

“How are you feeling? Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Do you feel nauseous? How's your head?" Scott is panting and Stiles’ eyes widen. Well… That’s concerning. He vaguely wonders if this is how people feel when  _ he’s _ freaked out and ranting. Stiles just scoffs at his best friend. 

“Where’s your mom? I want to apologize for ruining dinner.”

Scott pulls back, looking confused. Stiles watches, thoroughly amused, when he can almost see the lightbulb above Scott’s head. 

“I think she’s forgiven you  _ by now _ ,” Scott’s words are heavy and carry significant weight. The grin drops off of Stiles’ face. 

“By now? How long was I out?” Stiles’ concern only grows as he watches his dad and Scott share a meaningful look. Scott looks down at the floor so Stiles flicks his eyes to his dad’s tired face. 

“Son, you… you were unconscious for a week.” 

Stiles’ jaw is practically on the floor, “A week?! All of that took a week?!”

The Sheriff and Scott share another look. 

“All of what?” Scott asks. 

Stiles shakes his head, chuckling in disbelief. He’s run an emotional gauntlet and it took him a week. He faced trauma and guilt and it took  _ a week.  _ Stiles supposes that it actually makes sense for it to have been that long. 

“If I’m going to tell the story, I might as well wait until everyone is here. I don’t wanna tell it seventy-five times.” 

Stiles sighs, leaning back against his pillows. He takes a breath and realizes– He feels lighter than he’s felt in years. He’s carrying so much trauma, so much guilt, so many unspoken emotions. But… If he learned anything while he was out, it’s that he can get better. 

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit this fic is... whew, a monster of a fic! 
> 
> i want to thank @ceruleanmusings on [tumblr](https://ceruleanmusings.tumblr.com/) for listening to me rant when i came up with this idea, you're a real sport
> 
> and also @whenshewrites on [tumblr](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites) is an icon and without her this fic would never have been finished! 
> 
> come yell at me on Tumblr [@ira-fae](https://ira-fae.tumblr.com/)


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